


Repetition

by choir



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-14
Updated: 2015-01-14
Packaged: 2018-03-07 14:39:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3176286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/choir/pseuds/choir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On day one he asks for your hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Repetition

**Author's Note:**

> For a good friend of mine; originally written sometime mid 2014.
> 
> Note: the chronology of this fic doesn't match original canon because, as I was writing this, I thought of it as a slightly different universe.

On day one he asks for your hand, and you give it to him because you’re scared; he is looking at you like an unknown universe that he would give the world to understand, a bright smile and laughter that echos in your head in an endless loop. Perhaps you don’t question it due to the fact that he’s an enigma, too stubborn to listen to reason and so weird to you. It’s always confusing, at first, to meet someone who breathes and walks and talks the exact world you never knew existed. You are an assassin, after all, and he a boy from an island of fishermen. Exact opposites.

He asks, and you give, because it’s all you know, and all you’ve ever wanted.

  
  
  
  
  


On day thirty he asks for the mundane, a hug and a smile, prodding at your side to laugh at his attempted jokes. When you give him a few level glares, he gives up and flings his arms up overhead before falling back in the grass. He doesn’t speak for a few minutes after that, seemingly contemplative; it makes you excessively nervous, shifting between exactly fifty-three different negative possibilities in your head.

“Hey,” he says, pointing at a cloud floating by. “What does that look like to you?”

“A rabbit,” you instantly reply, almost used to his random questions by now.

“I think it looks like you!” he grins, rolling over to look you in the eyes. “But it’s eyes are more hollow than yours.”

“What the hell does that mean?” you grumble, crossing your legs and rocking back and forth.

“Well, they’re more bright,” he says, nonchalant, like he doesn’t have the slightest hint of how heavy the words weigh in your mind, or how cliche they sound. “More than the sky, I think.”

Blinking a few times, you turn towards him. He’s not looking at you, still staring at clouds with a small smile on his lips.

“Don’t you think?” he points his finger in the air, outlining some picture you can’t see.

You don’t know how to answer, even when he asks you again a few months later.

  
  
  
  
  
  


One day, he asks for ice cream.

It’s not exactly an uncommon request, but it’s 3AM after one of Bisky’s insane training sessions and your limbs feel heavy, like mountains weighing on your shoulders. It’s irritating how insistent he is, you don’t even know why he suddenly decided this, only that he’s shaking your shoulder and whispering in your ear; it leaves a trail of goosebumps down your spine.

You want to say no, but then again, you have wanted to say no to a lot of things. You aren’t sure how exactly ten minutes later you’re both trekking out into the street to look for a 24-hour liquor store; even he’s exhausted, groggily mumbling something incoherent about plans for the next day, talking about everything but the fact that it’s so early in the morning you feel something equivalent to death itself.

In normal circumstances, the shadows from the light of the street lamps might make you nervous, as old habits are hard to break, easy to store. He’s talking so calmly, despite of this, almost defenseless, and maybe it’s his tone that makes you relax, or the company, or a combination of the two. He’s so simplistic, and so complicated. It’s often hard to juxtapose the two.

By the time you reach the store, it’s an hour later and he’s leaning onto your shoulder, half asleep. A part of you wants to yell at him for falling asleep on a trip that he wanted to make. The other half is what picks him up and carries him home.

  
  
  
  
  
  


Sometime between day 168 and 187 -- you’ve lost track a long time ago -- he kisses you. It’s not particularly comfortable; it’s in the middle of summer and you’re both lying down on a hotel bed covered in sweat. He’s warm; warmer than you, at least, because where he touches makes your blood rush to pinpointed locations. Then again, Gon has always been fire, been light. A literal whirlwind at times.

His lips are softer than you imagined, and he cradles your face like it’s something intimately special. You don’t get it, but after a minute of Gon hovering in front of your face it becomes hard to think in proper sentences. It’s all a jumble, in your head.

He starts to clutch your shoulders so hard you wonder if they bruise, and you begin to move against him awkwardly. Letting out a slight growl, he bites your bottom lip, and you gasp slightly, fidgeting. A moment later an uncomfortable feeling pools in your stomach, a mixture of butterflies and something bare and raw you can’t identify.

As soon as he presses himself harder against you, you want to tell him a lot of things, like how it’s too hot, or he’s grinding against you and it’s driving you somewhere between insane and immensely psychotic. There’s Gon in your mouth, in your throat, along the side of your jaw where he kisses when you break to breathe; there’s Gon beneath your skin, in your veins and muscles and tissue --

He pulls away suddenly, tilting his head, still panting and mouth slightly open. Your head spins rapidly, and you try to ignore the shine on his lips, the slight redness. Gon only grins, like an idiot that just won a prize.

“You didn’t pull away,” he says, lips twitching.

“It’s heat stroke,” you give him an embarrassed look, wiping the side of your mouth.

Gon just leans in again, and you wrap your arms around his neck, this time.

  
  
  
  
  


On Halloween, Gon wears a really stupid costume.

He says it’s supposed to be a dog, or something. The fact of the matter is he’s wearing a tail. And ears. In front of you. Shamelessly. Like he’s not fourteen years old and may possibly be outgrowing the whole trick-or-treating thing. He’s even holding out cat ears expectantly, like you are going to drop everything and fulfill some idiotic wish -

Approximately thirty seconds later he has wrangled the ears onto your head, and you’re questioning how much you give into Gon in general. He might as well been waging a metaphorical tail.

It’d probably take a lot to get you to admit it, but running around with Gon and getting bags full of candy is a lot more fun than you expected.

(“Killua, I bet I can get more candy than you!”

“No way, idiot.”)

  
  
  
  
  


Day 368.

You’re on top of Gon. He’s shaking and his mouth is open and panting and you’ve begun to lose track of where you start and he begins. As you snap your hand down around you both, a tightness pools in your hips that makes you bite your lip so hard it bleeds, draining at the side of your mouth.

You’re sure that your inability to process anything is because of the way Gon looks, squirming under you and clutching onto your shirt with such strength that you can’t move more than a few inches from his face. His breathy whimpers slip right into your ear; his eyelashes tickle your cheeks when he moves closer; his neck, riddled with red marks, taunt you when his chest lurches upward with a shuddering whine.

It isn’t fair. Your head is spinning and there’s both yours and his precum smeared across your hand and stomach and you’re so close, but Gon is crying out a string of incoherent moans and you only want more, greedily, desperately. So you swallow whatever impatience is bubbling up in your chest and stroke faster, grinding you both together in a way that makes him gasp again, hands moving from your chest to grip the sheets.

“No --” he manages to choke out, and you stop, momentarily, frightened by his expression. Did you go too far, you frantically think, before his eyes lock with yours, too serious and too deep; it makes your heart leap into your throat, and suddenly you can’t move.

“Why are you stopping?” he mumbles, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow. “Aren’t you close?”

Slightly flabbergasted, you squint at him before retorting, “aren’t you?”

“I asked you!”

“I asked you as well!” Letting out an exasperated sigh, you flick his forehead gently, flushing as you watch the cum on your hands dribble down his nose.

Gon seemingly ignores this, looking down at where your hips are pressed together, and grinds experimentally upward. You aren’t expecting this, letting out a half muffled groan, clenching your teeth. He does it again with a grin, wrapping his arms around your neck.

He kisses you like you’re the only one in the world, then.


End file.
